


licht und blindheit

by singlemalter



Category: Formula E RPF
Genre: Angst, Blow Jobs, Infidelity, M/M, Suit Porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-04
Updated: 2019-06-04
Packaged: 2020-04-07 13:17:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19085827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/singlemalter/pseuds/singlemalter
Summary: Post-Cannes. For the promptdo you ever think that, maybe, we should stop doing this?





	licht und blindheit

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lost_decade](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lost_decade/gifts).



Deep down, he may have an unresolved need for Jean-Éric’s affection. In the same vein, he plans to never address it. They’re on amazing terms, borderline fraternal whenever Jean-Éric isn’t on his knees or bent over a balcony; André reckons they’ve grown intimate enough that an impromptu romantic advance wouldn’t ruin their work dynamics, yet he doesn’t have the backbone to claw into his chest and say, _let’s try to make this something more, I want this with you_.

It isn’t what André does, and it certainly isn’t what Jean-Éric or the Techeetah guys need. Expiring for love is beautiful but stupid.

“Pay attention to me,” Jean-Éric says, snappy as always. He raises his hands to his neck and undoes his bow tie with a flourish, then slowly opens the buttons of his tux shirt. (The Hugo guys would have a heart attack if they witnessed the way he nonchalantly tosses his clothes on the floor. Good thing this is a sight for André’s eyes only.) 

André obliges—it’s nearly impossible not to. He watches silently as Jean-Éric strips down to his underwear and climbs on the mattress, crawling as though he’s a needy cat. André shifts backwards on the bed until his spine is straight against the headboard, waiting for Jean-Éric to come closer of his own volition. Little things like this help him feel less like Atlas, holding up the weight of jeopardising their relationship.

His patience is well rewarded with a lapful of almost-naked Jean-Éric. André puts a hand over his smattering of chest hair and slides it towards the tantalising line of Jean-Éric’s happy trail, fingertips dipping under his waistband. This touch, slow and devoted, shoots through Jean-Éric’s spine.

“Do you want to fuck me?”

In lieu of an answer, André spits on his hand and reaches into Jean-Éric’s boxers to grab his half-hard dick. He moves in swift, light strokes, jerking Jean-Éric off until he rests his forehead on André’s shoulder and sinks his teeth into the fabric to stifle his noises.

“André,” he sighs, voice imbued with annoyance and arousal. “André, I want to—”

“I know,” André says with a chortle. He gets his hand out of Jean-Éric’s pants and gently pushes him until he’s lying flat on his back, his lanky legs still firm around André’s waist.

André unbuttons his trousers and tugs them halfway down his thighs. His boxers conveniently join the ride, revealing his leaking dick. God, the things this man does to him. “You need to calm down a bit, yeah?”

“I’ve been calm for hours,” Jean-Éric says, not sounding it in the slightest. His gaze stops between André’s legs. “Lotterer, if you do not fuck me right now, I’m going to kick your arse so hard you will want to retire.”

“Are you in a hurry, Jev?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Jean-Éric hisses, and brusquely pushes his heels against the small of André’s back.

André topples over. “Arsehole,” he groans. He sets his hands on either side of Jean-Éric’s head to hold himself up, looking into his eyes with renewed intent. “You are really going to regret that.”

“Am I?” Jean-Éric challenges. He leans up to kiss him, his thumb rubbing circles over the prickly stubble on André’s jawline.

They don’t do this very often, kissing for the sake of it. André makes sure to savour the feeling, vigour bleeding into harsh bites and breathless gasps. “Let me make you feel good,” he says, lips brushing against Jean-Éric’s with every syllable, and he’s proud of his dirty talk expertise but this is probably the filthiest he’s ever sounded. There’s something—his taste, his low moans, his willowy build—about Jean-Éric that makes André’s libido revert to that of a teenager’s. It’s both shameful and thrilling. 

André moves as far back as he can without hitting the wall, fingers splayed across Jean-Éric’s abdomen. The lack of space forces him to bend at the waist to suck Jean-Éric’s cock, and giving head is good but giving _Jean-Éric_ head is a transcendental experience. He loves how expressive Jean-Éric is, lavishing praise on André with every small movement; he loves the muted swears he hears when he forces himself to go lower until his nose hits Jean-Éric’s skin; and the latent awareness that he loves all of Jean-Éric horrifies him, because this is supposed to be sex as sedative, an easy outlet for the melancholy metastasising in Jean-Éric’s bones.

This is not for André, though it certainly feels like it when Jean-Éric grabs a handful of his hair and says, “André, je vais—”

_Jouir_ , André’s brain offers, his sexual lexicon stupidly enriched by months of bilingual pre-orgasm babble. He pulls off Jean-Éric’s dick with a wet pop, leaving open-mouthed kisses down its length. 

“Fuck,” Jean-Éric cries, his thighs trembling over André’s shoulders. He’s so responsive. “What are you _doing_?”

André shoots him a smirk. “Having fun,” he says, and takes Jean-Éric into his mouth again. It’s a dance he’s familiar with: steady tempo, lots of tongue, even breaths through his nose. He wants to jerk himself off but leaves the amour de soi aside for now; his nails rake Jean-Éric’s thighs instead, pink-red marks that, just like André, won’t be there in the morning.

It’s the last straw. Jean-Éric comes down his throat with a half-formed curse, hot and salty. André dutifully swallows, devout worshipper that he is, and only allows himself a breather once Jean-Éric goes completely soft on his tongue.

“That was,” Jean-Éric heaves, “I don’t have any words, actually.”

André flops sideways onto the mattress and closes his eyes. He’s still hard, yet he feels no desire whatsoever to continue. Reality hits him the hardest like this, when Jean-Éric’s sated and he’s not—even if André _does_ orgasm, he knows there’s always a deeper craving sex can’t quite solve.

“Fuck,” he says, feeling like every last tragedy cliché rolled into a sorry excuse for a person. “We shouldn’t have...”

“What?” Jean-Éric says, lifting his head to look at André. “What do you mean? Why?”

Like clockwork, André goes about his post-coital routine; he props himself up on his elbows and swings his legs over the side of the bed. He gets onto his feet, shame corroding his innards, and pulls his underwear and trousers back up.

He looks past Jean-Éric and out the window.

The Côte d’Azur is gorgeous. It’s a beautiful night, stars dotting the clear sky. He wishes they could share it under different circumstances—an alternate reality where they’re not both signed to Techeetah. A world where they’re not committed to other things. To other people.

“Jev, I can’t keep doing this,” he says.

“Why?” Jean-Éric repeats. André can’t tell if he’s upset or livid. Maybe it’s both.

“I just—Jev, do you ever think that, maybe, we should stop doing this?”

“If this is about Lorene,” Jean-Éric says. “I don’t want to talk about this. Not right now.”

“If not now, then when?” André asks, already stepping back into his shoes. Jean-Éric doesn’t answer, but then again, André never expected him to. 

On his way to the door, André bends down and takes Jean-Éric’s discarded bow tie from the floor. “I’m keeping this,” he says. He tucks the depressing memento into his pocket and walks out. 

**Author's Note:**

> Title transcends regular “vaguely relevant song reference” customs and dips into “title of France-only release of a single I think applies to this fic,” much to my dismay. Go listen to _Atmosphere_ by Joy Division. (Licht und Blindheit is German for Light and Blindness.)
> 
> Set Cannes 2019. Obviously. Have you seen those matching suits?
> 
> _Expiring for love is beautiful but stupid_ is a truism by Jenny Holzer.
> 
> ”I offered sex as sedative” is a quote from _A Constellation of Half-Lives_ by Seema Reza.
> 
> “This is not for you” is the first sentence in Mark Z. Danielewski’s _House of Leaves_.
> 
> _Amour de soi_ is Rousseau’s concept of pure self-love, leading to acts purely for individual wellbeing (as opposed to _amour propre_ , which is a tainted kind of self-love). 
> 
> I’m still singlemalter on Tumblr! That’s also where this prompt was submitted, so. If you’re willing to wait two weeks for me to write something, you can do that.


End file.
